Chapter 132: The Echoes That Follow

The stars above the Ashen Veil trembled as Zhao Lianxu stepped beyond the final gate, Yue Qingshuang close behind. The portal dissolved into glittering dust, the veil's last whisper fading like a breath withheld too long.

What waited on the other side was not a battlefield or throne—but stillness.

A temple.

It rose from the heart of a floating realm that defied spatial laws, its foundations resting on nothing, suspended within a whirlpool of converging realms—heavenly lights above, shadows below. Time bent gently here, like a reed under wind.

Zhao stepped onto the jade-carved stairway leading up to the temple entrance. Each step glowed faintly as he moved, reacting to his bloodline.

The temple doors—twin gates of starmetal inlaid with the five prime elements—opened without a sound.

Inside, a hall stretched wide and tall enough to contain entire cities. Pillars of light extended endlessly into the darkness above, and between them stood dozens of thrones. Each one empty. Each one humming with echoes of judgment long passed.

A solitary figure waited at the far end, seated upon the central dais. Hooded in black, his skin shimmered faintly with ink-like tattoos that moved across his arms like constellations swimming through flesh.

He rose slowly.

"I wondered how long it would take for you to reach me," the man said, voice calm but sharp as broken glass. "Zhao Lianxu. Son of balance, son of war. You come to claim what was never meant to be owned."

Zhao approached without flinching.

"I come to decide," he said, "whether to rule, destroy, or walk away."

Yue stood a pace behind him, watching the man closely. The tattoos on his skin moved faster now, reacting to Zhao's presence.

"You don't recognize me, do you?" the man asked, lifting his hood.

Zhao's breath caught.

It was like looking into a mirror fractured by time. The same eyes. The same jawline. But aged by centuries—and haunted by choices never made.

"You're…" Zhao whispered.

"Yes," the man said softly. "The version of you that did everything wrong."

Three hundred years ago in a forgotten strand of the multiverse, this man—another Zhao Lianxu—had made different choices. He had slaughtered the Demon Council instead of uniting them. Turned Yue Qingshuang into a blade rather than a companion. He had mastered time but lost every moment that made him human.

He had become the one the Ashen Veil feared. The Tyrant of Echoes.

"I sealed myself here," the Tyrant said, stepping off the dais. "I fractured this timeline to keep myself from poisoning the rest. But the multiverse… always balances itself. And now you stand here—another version. Another chance."

Zhao shook his head. "Why show me this? I've already turned away from that path."

The Tyrant gave a bitter smile. "Have you? Or have you simply delayed it?"

Yue's voice rang out, low and steady. "He made the choice to let go. That makes all the difference."

The Tyrant turned to her. "Does it? I let go too, once. Right before I watched my empire burn."

His gaze returned to Zhao.

"You're here because the final legacy calls to you. The Flame Without Source. The origin of the Five Elemental Body, the foundation of your deepest cultivation. It lies within this temple—but claiming it means confronting the last fracture in your soul."

Zhao stepped forward. "Show me."

The Tyrant led them through a back corridor of the temple. As they moved, the hallways shifted like living veins—walls melting into memories, windows revealing moments from Zhao's past.

His first battle in the Crimson Lotus Arena.

The night he watched his mother disappear into the void to save him.

Yue's bloodied hands cradling his body after the ambush at Broken Star Fortress.

And then—something stranger.

A memory he didn't remember.

A child—no older than ten—standing in a field of glass, alone, screaming as the sky above cracked into ash.

Zhao paused. "What is this?"

The Tyrant answered, voice distant. "Your soul's core fracture. A moment sealed away, too painful, too dangerous. The memory that created the Multiuniverse Destructive Body."

The air thickened as they entered the final chamber.

There, atop a pedestal of obsidian lotus petals, burned a flame that gave no heat. It pulsed with shifting colors—fire that held memories instead of light.

The Flame Without Source.

"It is not power," the Tyrant said. "It is truth. Touch it… and remember everything."

Zhao stepped forward.

Yue moved to stop him. "Lianxu—wait. Once you touch it, there's no going back."

Zhao looked at her. His eyes no longer held the same conflict. Something had settled inside him.

"I need to know who I truly am. Not who I could become. But who I've always been."

He touched the flame.

The world vanished.

He stood alone.

Not as a man, or a prince, or an heir.

As a child.

A ten-year-old boy, lost in a shattered world.

This was the origin. The beginning of everything.

He remembered the explosion now—the collapse of a forbidden time fragment unleashed by mistake. He had wandered into a sealed tomb while escaping invaders. Touched a glyph he shouldn't have. The world tore itself inside out.

He should have died.

But instead, his body absorbed it.

The flame. The timelines. The collapsing stars.

His soul had split—but survived.

He had lived. Alone. For three subjective centuries in a collapsed loop of time. A child screaming in a world with no end.

When the multiverse healed, it spat him back out.

He had forgotten.

Until now.

The pain hit like a thunderclap.

The loneliness. The insanity. The silence.

He fell to his knees, gasping.

But even as the torment consumed him, he felt something new rising through it.

Strength not born of bloodlines or legacies—but of survival.

He hadn't just inherited power.

He had earned it.

When he awoke, the temple was dark.

The Tyrant stood before him—but bowed now, for the first time.

"You have remembered."

Zhao rose, flames dancing along his spine, his eyes reflecting infinite stars.

"I'm not the tyrant," he said quietly.

"I am the storm that survived its silence."

The flame had merged with him—burning not as destruction, but as identity.

The Multiuniverse Destructive Body was no longer a curse. It was balance born of chaos.

Yue stepped forward, touching his shoulder. "You look… different."

He turned to her with a smile that didn't hide the pain—but also didn't let it rule him.

"I am different."

The Tyrant spoke again. "You have surpassed me. The legacy is yours now. But beware. Those who fear your rise have already begun to move."

Zhao narrowed his eyes. "Who?"

The answer was a whisper that seemed to echo from every wall:

"The Timeless Tribunal. And the one who leads them… is your father."

The temple quaked.

Light split the ceiling, a portal opening from beyond.

The Tyrant stepped back into the shadows.

"Go," he said. "The real war begins now."

Zhao and Yue stepped through the gate together.

And this time, they emerged not in a forgotten realm—but at the heart of the living multiverse.

Sects were falling.

Empires rising in panic.

A god had been slain in the farthest edge of the Celestial Abyss.

The Tribunal had begun its purge.

And Zhao Lianxu was no longer a prince.

He was the storm that walked.

The emperor unbound.